


near death experiences and otherwise worldly encounters

by cloudburst



Series: amore? never fuckin’ heard of her [1]
Category: Mafia (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, pre-mafia III
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27554833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudburst/pseuds/cloudburst
Summary: Vito wouldn't call pushing him out from under some metal beams saving his life, but then again, what does he know.Also known as the one where Vito is middle aged and tired, but that doesn't stop nothin'.
Relationships: Vito Scaletta/OMC, Vito Scaletta/Original Character(s), Vito Scaletta/Original Male Character
Series: amore? never fuckin’ heard of her [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015227
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. fuckin' marcano

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first chaptered thing i've tried to write in ages. i want vito to have love ig
> 
> marc is is my oc. he is acadian and speaks french creole, from the bayou southeast of river row. he's a puppy. 
> 
> for his accent, think rami malek as snafu in the pacific (a link if you're interested in the accent/voice i'm talking about, tw violence if you go more than 3 min in the video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RlWpU9iHqRE)
> 
> also this chapter cw homophobia _lite_ is spoken about in regard to "preferences" and the character calling himself a fruit

_Fuckin’_ _Marcano_ _._ Of course he’s gonna order a hit on one of Vito’s guys, and of course there’s gonna be not a thing Vito can do about it. In the grand scheme of things he knows he’s powerless, but that’s not gonna stop him from being conveniently placed regarding that assassination attempt – ‘cause Vito knows Marcano can’t kill _him_ just yet, lest he royally piss off the Commission. It’s just that Vito is bringing in real money pretty consistently, and though he was _given_ the Row by Marcano at Leo’s request, he knows it burns Marcano’s smarmy little ass to see him doing anything other than be squashed at the hands of New Bordeaux. That’s how you end up with your main guy – well, your main guy other than Alma – being targeted in Downtown; that’s how you end up here, the humidity making you sweat through your white polo-lookin’ shirt. Vito is just surprised he’s made it this far: 41 ain’t nothing to scoff at, not when you’ve given everything to the life and it’s chewed you up and spit you out in return.

So yeah, he’s a little pissed this is what he’s got to show for it, standing outside of a construction site while his guy talks to one of Marcano’s , so they can frame Charlie for moving onto turf that doesn’t belong to Vito, and chalk it up to Vito being ignorant of Charlie’s whereabouts, and blah blah blah. It’s all so convoluted and so _fuckin’ Marcano_ that it’s makin’ Vito’s head hurt. He just wants to know why Marcano goes through the trouble to make it so Vito doesn’t know. Charlie ain’t stupid, and he wouldn’t operate without permission from Vito, hotheaded Sicilian or not. He supposes that if Marcano has plausible deniability when he finally has Vito whacked, well, how mad could Galante be?

So much for fuckin’ loyalty – never got him anywhere other than a ratty apartment above a shit-tier little Italian restaurant. The lasagna was good and Frankie – that one hurt a bit – always delivered when Vito asked for some coffee brought up, a slice of ricotta pie to ease his troubles. But even sfogliatella couldn’t get him out of this situation.

The way to position yourself in front of a shooter is to deny them a line of sight. Thankfully, Marcano thought so low of him and his guys he hadn’t thought one of his more aim-inclined men were needed to take Charlie out. So a sniper was out of the question, and the job wasn’t to whack Vito; denying a line of sight is a fancy way of saying: annoyingly stand in front of the target till the hitman realizes he ain’t gonna be able to do shit if he’s got orders not to hurt anyone else. And that’s what Vito was banking on, and what Vito did till he saw that piece of shit Paulie leave the construction site.

He swears under his breath as he tries to light the cigarette. The wind coming in off the water is fuckin’ freezing.

“Ay, Vito! Fuck are you doin’ here?” Charlie’s voice cuts across the site, and Vito turns to face him, lit cigarette (thank _fuck_ ) finally hanging from between his lips.

He takes a drag before responding. “Had some uh, y’know, business in this section of town. Saw you when I was walkin’ by, figured I’d offer you a ride back to the Row.”

“Yeah, sure Vito, thanks.” It’s as simple as that.

Vito turns, and Charlie makes to follow him. He doesn’t know how close he just came to having a bullet lodged somewhere in his body, and Vito wants it to stay that way. He supposes none of them really know how many times they’ve been one pull of a trigger away from their bodies in the ground. It’s a silent agreement they have with themselves, to not think about how every waking moment they’re one step closer to a bullet in the head and a box in the ground. He thinks about Tommy Angelo, sometimes. How he was the one to put him in the ground. He thinks about how loyalty only gets you so far and that’s all Vito has ever had for others, was his _loyalty_.

He’s lost in his thoughts and Charlie is ahead of him, walking faster than Vito when he recognizes which car is his boss’s.

“Oh, and Vito, could you actually drop me at Benny’s since that’s where we’re goin’ anyways? You gotta get Frankie to tell me how she…”

Charlie’s cut off by a louder voice – one yelling for Vito to look out, to duck, to do something. And a body crashes into his, knocking him to the ground. His shirt isn’t white anymore, and Vito is about to draw his fuckin’ gun when he sees the kid (he’s got to be in his late 20’s, Vito) on top of him began to stand up. He offers Vito his hand like he hasn’t just tackled a stranger to the ground.

Vito doesn’t accept it, but he doesn’t push it away either, just standing up like he’s got any goddamn dignity left after that. He doesn’t know it’ll be robbed from him by this kid, but it is what it is. And the guy’s voice has got the remnants of French creole sticking to every vowel as he tells Vito, “Sorry about tha’, wasn’t tryin’ to cause ya any harm but I figured you’d rather have me knockin’ you over than findin’ yourself on the receiving end of a real skull bashin’ – on account of that metal beam ‘nd all, and…”

Vito cuts him off, shaking his head like he got more than half of it, like he didn’t want to take the solitary curl fallin’ onto this guy’s forehead and place it between the blades of some scissors. _Snip._ He wants to push it back. He wants to knock the small smile off of his face – thanks for ruinin’ my fucking shirt.

“Yeah, sure kid, thanks.”

The one who’d tackled him – who was covered in dirt but didn’t seem to care in his coveralls – frowned. “The name’s Marc.”

Vito doesn’t acknowledge that development before turning on his heel. “C’mon, Charlie. We’ve gotta get outta here.”

“Right, let’s go.”

When he finally leaves the construction site and hops into the truck it’s with a sigh of relief. The day has been long, and he’s still covered in that _goddamn_ mud. Marc thinks he should’ve let that shit crush that smug bastard; and that’s not true. Marc knows he’d save that Italian asshole again and again if he had to – wasn’t in his nature to let harm come to others, no matter if he was expectin’ a thank you that he most assuredly did not receive. New Bordeaux was funny in that way, in the way that you never knew if the person nearest to you was some kind of indomitable spirit or indomitable asshole. He thinks that the Italian _gentleman_ must have been the latter.

When his truck stalls out in front of his favorite diner, he thinks it’s a sign from God that he deserves a break. That is until it starts pouring rain as he’s walking in, and until he sits down, and they tell him they’re out of sausage gravy. The next biscuits won’t be ready for an hour; it is nighttime after all, and most people comin’ in at this hour want a burger and fries. They want a milkshake – not some runny white shit over buttery, glorified, far too thick bread that can get just a lil’ too crunchy at the edges.

He ends up ordering a cheeseburger. It’s not the worst one he’s ever had, but he probably could’ve done better. His momma could’ve given him some seasoning for this to really go an’ elevate the flavor profile. Or he’d have made something more New Bordeaux, more somethin’ he grew up eating: crawfish, crab. But it is what it is, and he’s content to sit there listenin’ to the rain smack across the window. He’s fine with the day, orders a slice of pie to show himself how fine he is. When it comes out and the waitress – her name is Amy, called Miss Amy by Marc as she says he’s _always the charmer_ – well, she drops the slice of apple pie in front of him and remarks how he needs to find himself a lady and she knows plenty of women who ain’t from the Bayou who’d be willin’ to snatch him up. He doesn’t know why she frames it like that, like he minds where he comes from – is scared to show people he’s always had to work hard to make a living. He also doesn’t know why she tries to set him up at all, on account of knowin’ his _preferences_ – being one of the few people to see Marc a little too intoxicated, a little too willin’ to open his mouth. 

“Miss Amy, I’m not really lookin’ to settle down with no lady just yet. Gotta keep my options open.”

She laughs as the bell over the door rings; she probably thinks he’s made some great joke and he’s just being all too serious. Marc looks back down to his pie and he can tell Miss Shonda made it as he takes the first bite. He could sink into the booth right then and there, isn’t paying attention to Amy’s conversation behind him.

“Well, howdy Mr. Scaletta. What brings you in so late to our humble establishment?”

“I know Amy, I know – but I didn’t come in for breakfast and this place was callin’ my name. And with how it’s dumping outside can you blame me?”

She giggles, and it’s that giggle she doesn’t use on Marc anymore on account of her knowin’ he’s a _fruit_. Those are words out of her brother’s mouth, not her own. Anyways, he doesn’t get why she’s gigglin’ till he realizes the voice sounds familiar as it orders a cup of coffee – tellin’ Amy he’s gonna take it black this evening – till _Mr. Scaletta_ is standing in front of him, leaning against the booth seat opposite. He’d definitely changed his shirt, hat still atop his head, brown jacket over his shoulders. Marc doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to. He’ll wait, biting his thumb nail – preoccupied from the pie – or nothing will be said. He’s not the creep invading a stranger’s time.

“Never got the chance to say thanks, y’know for keepin’ me from getting crushed, so thanks. Name’s Vito.”

Marc can’t help it. He snorts into his hand as he motions for Vito to sit down. He does.

He hums around a bite of pie before responding. “You show up at my construction site, then my favorite diner, and my friend Amy here seems to know ya. Never seen you before in my life. You followin’ me, Vi-to?”

Vito laughs and Marc isn’t sure what to do. He looks away- feels like he shouldn’t be allowed to see. Marc’s not sure why that is, not when Vito Scaletta decided that he got to join a stranger at his dinner – when he ordered a black coffee just to watch Marc eat his pie. “Consider it divine luck or somethin’, kid. Not much else it could be – felt like kind of an asshole after I left with my friend back there. He confirmed I was, and I’m apparently capable of feeling guilt. Surprises keep comin’.”

Marc leans back in the booth for a moment, fork still resting against the half-empty plate with the half-eaten pie.

He so badly wants to make a joke about his suspicions – Vito bein’ on the site for no reason other than to look good and give orders, not his boss – not anyone’s boss except that man he left with. In the end, the guess as to his identity, his _affiliations_ , doesn’t leave Marc’s lips.

“Well, you’re welcome. Wish you coulda told me you’d be joinin’ me for dinner at the site. Would’ve made you foot the bill to repay me – also woulda ordered the most expensive thing on here.”

Thankfully, Vito laughs as Amy places down his coffee. She looks at Marc with a feigned glare. “Don’t go stealin’ Vito from me now, Marc. He might be greying but he’s still got a lot to give.”

Vito winks her at her, Marc searchin’ for the words – sarcasm dripping when he finds them. “Oh, I’d not presume to do any such thing, Miss Amy.”

She slaps his shoulder before leaving, grin still plastered across her small features. “Ya better not. Y’all enjoy, I’ll bring by the bill in a few minutes.”

When she got far enough away so it wouldn’t be taken as an invitation to speak further, Vito added: “Bring me the check, Amy. I gotta be good for somethin’ other than causing friction between a waitress and her customer, huh?”

“Vi-to, I can’t take yo’ money…it ain’t right, not when I did somethin’ anyone should’ve done. I was just jokin’ – you know – ‘bout making you pay for me.”

“Sure, kid, I guess. But you were the one that did save me – not Joe Schmo from down the block. And it’s just your dinner and my coffee. I’m not givin’ you my hand in holy matrimony so don’t make it a fuckin’ show.”

Marc swallows. “Sure thing, Vi-to.”

After that, they speak for longer than Marc thought. He finds himself leaning into his palm, chin in his hand – elbow on the table. His momma would be so mad at him, bein’ such a heathen in front of such a handsome man. And those words would be his mom’s, but maybe his own too as Vito smiles at him, laughin’ at a dumb joke he doesn’t think anyone ever has with the way Vito seems surprised at the sound. His eyes are the color of the water by his house in the winter, blue-grey and sparkling. Marc thinks he’s beautiful. Marc doesn’t know what to do with that.

After what’s gotta be a couple hours, Amy drops the check off with Vito. He doesn’t offer anything to Marc prior to his exit, other than a couple words and a smile. He doesn’t want him to leave – will be damned if he asks Vito if he’s gonna see him again.

“This was fun. See you around, Marc.” He doesn’t think Vito will, but he nods, swallowing. 

Marc swears he laughs as the door closes, and the bell chimes to signal his exit. He wouldn’t have minded staying, speaking a bit longer, getting’ to stare at him just a little more. He would ‘ve liked to get a look at the grey under the hat – would’ve liked to know why Vito really sat down with him – would’ve liked a lot of things.

He knows nothing about Vito, and Vito knows nothing about him. He ain’t ever gonna see him again, and really – that’s that. C’est la vie.


	2. you tryin' to get my money, vito?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unexplainable encounters that are actually pretty explanatory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah yes the lazy use of homophobia _lite_ as a plot device
> 
> cw very brief descriptions of homophobia

When his mom had asked Marc where he’d been that night, why he’d taken so long to get home, Marc had said he’d gotten dinner with a friend. This wasn’t something that could be seen as true by any stretch of the imagination, unless you counted saving handsome strangers as a path to friendship, but he wasn’t gonna break his momma’s heart by recanting a small lie once it had slipped out, particularly one that gave her hope he was havin’ fun. If Vito Scaletta wanted to interrupt his dinner, _and pay for it –_ Marc thought, then Vito could deal with Marc’s callin’ him a friend to his momma.

He walks into the diner the next week after a hard day at the site. He’d had to break up an altercation between two guys he’d thought were friends, and Marc is starting to think he should get paid more than he does. He knows he should get without all the extra effort he’s always puttin’ in, but New Bordeaux and the minimum wage for work of his type do not agree. Amy greets him with a sincere smile, and Marc wants to thank her for bein’ so sunny. So, he does, and she brings him a cup of coffee and his – glorious – biscuits and gravy.

But like Marc knows, he is a poor boy who became a poor man – chewed up by the bayou, spit out by the city, and abandoned by the law. That’s why, he tells himself, he doesn’t reject Vito’s offer to pay for his dinner again. It’s not that he’s pathetic – not that he’s lonely. He has friends.

“The fuck is this?” Vito asks as he sits down across from Marc, bringing Marc back from his thoughts and not waiting to be invited. Marc knew he would as soon as he saw him begin his approach to the booth –facing the door this time; he wishes he found it rude. He sits up a bit straighter, lies to himself and says he doesn’t.

“Whaddya mean?”

“Eatin’ fuckin’ breakfast for dinner. What? Are you twelve?”

Amy drops off a cup of coffee for Vito before Marc can respond.

“I’m a growin’ boy, Vi-to. Gotta get my protein.”

“Listen, Amy – yeah, a burger’ll be good. Thanks, hun. No, kid. Protein is a burger, some lasagna, some bucatini, pancetta to go in. Not this shit.”

Marc hums in response, taking another bite. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. I’ve gotta say, it’s a food that jus’ makes me feel good.”

“Oh yeah, kid, you make it sound real appealing. I wanna eat something that’s gonna make me feel like I’m about to keel over.”

Marc shrugs. “Hey, you’re the one who comes in here attackin’ my dinner. I’m jus’ tryin’ to have a nice little time. But you can try it if you want. I’m not gonna stop a man from broadenin’ his horizons.”

“Fuck no,” Vito responds – Amy droppin’ off his burger suspiciously fast with a quick _enjoy!_

Once Vito has his food they eat quietly, but when Marc makes a joke – swears in French creole because him food’s a little too hot – Vito laughs, face lightin’ up like the fourth of July. Marc swears to himself that he doesn’t blush. It’s the humidity making him warm in the cheeks.

It’s not raining outside – no background noise to distract Marc from his thoughts. He thinks more. He thinks about how Vito is kinda beautiful and that’s not necessarily a good thing. Who is he kiddin’? But the way he smiles at something Marc said – the way the lines of his face go soft around his lips, the scar at his jaw working in tandem to put on a show – it’s nice. He’s got a few years on Marc, probably a good ten or so, but that ain’t nothin’ other than time – at least at their age. Marc figures his thoughts can’t bother anyone outside of himself, and he’s so wrong– cheeks goin’ red when Vito tells him it was nice chattin’ with him again. Once again, he doesn’t want Vito to leave. He wants to take a walk with him, ask him why he was at the site that day – ask him what he’s doin’ sitting here with Marc.

He almost does, but he thinks he knows the answer as Vito’s hand brushes over his momentarily – a hint at nothing that could be somethin’. _Interesting._

“You should uh, drop by the little Italian place by the water – Benny’s. It’s my place, you know? I could have ‘em make you something better than this place could do.”

Marc stands to follow him out after Vito has paid once again. He usually ain’t one for charity, not that it’s offered very often. He’s usually the one helpin’ the old lady cross the road, buyin’ that little boy the chocolate bar his momma couldn’t afford. He’s brought back to the moment. He’s gotta answer – makes a retort in the simple answer’s place.

“You tryin’ to get my money Vi-to?” He asks as Vito opens the door for him, laughing at Marc like he couldn’t have done it himself – or like he thinks what he said is actually funny. Either way, he breathes out a little bit more harshly than he should. _I’m not stupid,_ he tells himself. But he can appreciate a man holdin’ the door for him, a man he’s thought about a little too much in the past week, who has spent more money on him than anyone alive, his momma not included. He lowers his voice, trying to keep the tone light, joking. “Or you just askin’ me out?”

And yeah, he’s not stupid – not by a long shot, not by any standard of the imagination. But when Vito tells him: “Just figured the Catfish Queen was gonna give you fuckin’ heartburn one of these days.”

Marc says: “Okay, yah. You’re on.”

The rest of the week passes in a blur as time usually does, despite that he’s vaguely anticipatin’ the next Sunday.

It ‘s not that Marc _isn’t_ looking forward to driving into the Row on his day off, it’s just that he really doesn’t want to even with the greatest of motivations. When you’re working your ass off six days a week, sometimes seven, a day of relaxation is called for. Sometimes that’s eating out – takin’ his momma somewhere for a nice dinner – but more often than not it’s enjoying a Bourbon City Blinder and passin’ the fuck out before nine PM. He’s always been told he lives an excitin’ life when he dips from drinks with guys from the site before ten o’ clock with nothin’ but his early rising as an excuse. The words of course drip with sarcasm, but he never pays it any mind.

“Marc,” his mom is calling him from the kitchen. “What do you say we make some food together tomorrow – an all-day affair.”

He laughs, kissing her on the cheek before he heads out the door. “You know, I think I’ve actually got somewhere to be for lunch. Or dinner?” Marc confuses himself – realizes Vito never gave him a time preference. A nagging thought in the back of his head tells him it’s because Vito don’t wanna spend his Sunday talkin’ to some kid from the bayou – was just sayin’ sweet things to Marc to thank him for saving his life and all that, didn’t punch him at the implication of the _date_ question as a result of his singular action. Or, Marc thinks, Vito coulda just asked to keep him from becomin’ a slightly more crushed version of himself. It is what it is.

Marc hops into his truck, is listenin’ to that station out of the Hollow on the way to the site downtown the Saturday before they’re meant to meet. The Rolling Stones help him forget anything other than the road and the tappin’ of his hands on the steering wheel. He parks around the corner – hopes his vehicle goes unmolested today – and walks on. The building ain’t anywhere near completion and he knows that pisses a lot of people off. It doesn’t matter to him; he gets paid to assist, to build scaffolding, to use a jackhammer where they tell him to. It isn’t enough, he thinks again. He also thinks it would be worse other places. So he does as he’s told – not resentfully, just resigned. One day he’s gonna have that house for his momma: water view, but one that ain’t gonna flood. It’s unstained by time and nature.

Bobby asks him if he’s gonna go out for a drink with all of ‘em later after a few hours on the job, and Marc doesn’t see why not – knows he’ll be too tired to function beyond around ten PM – will leave before any trouble can start or he can even feel a buzz. Planning has never gotten a soul anywhere.

The small pub Bobby selects is in the Southeast corner of River Row, closest to Marc’s home – thinks he might even wanna stay for two drinks. He can walk from here. The smell of the water might do him some good, putrid scent of the city’s contaminants removing any semblance of intoxication from him before his momma can even figure out what’s goin’ on. He might be almost thirty, but he’s not above his momma yellin’ at him in his own house, the one he bought after theirs was burning. He doesn’t think he ever will be. Marc sighs into the half empty beer bottle.

“Marc, fuck are you doin’ sighing into your bottle like a little girl?” Bobby is Irish. It’s 90 percent of his personality, and Marc is okay with that. Bobby would probably tell him 90 percent of Marc’s personality was smellin’ like an alligator and bein’ tamer than his mother. But it’s always nice to have a little variety in your life – his only friends where he came from, before he was constantly on the streets of New Bordeaux, bein’ from the same place as him, speakin’ the same language at home and holding on too tight to a changing world. Or of course, Miss Amy and the plethora of Italian lady friends that comes with knowin’ one of ‘em. They see him on the street, offer him a quick kiss on the cheek and a question about his mother, and then they’re off.

This time, though, bein’ with Bobby is different – attracts the attention of someone he’s not so okay with seeing: Vinny Filippelli, Amy’s older brother – always tellin’ Amy to hang around a man like him is sinnin’ in the eyes of God; but Vinny has never believed in God – brings in his name when it benefits him, allows him to lash out at others in the name of something righteous.

Marc tries to avoid him at all costs, but apparently the night has other plans as he approaches, puts himself between Marc and the door. He cuts off any attempt Marc could have made to leave without exchanging words.

From there it’s a blur of fake explanations, even if he’s not lyin’ about Bobby being a friend from the site. And it’s another whirlwind of near misses as he dodges the first punch but not the second, momentarily elated as Bobby leaves – quickly reminded he’s supposed to be feelin’ lower than dirt.

So yeah, he tries to avoid Vinny Filippeli, knowin’ full well it’s impossible as soon as he’s got his sights set on him – knowin’ full well he’s gonna be sporting a black eye for a few days. He guesses he’s grateful that’s all it is.

But he’s tired of bein’ grateful for lower than the bare minimum, and he’s so tired of being tired. Once he’s out, he walks home with the moon above New Bordeaux shinin’ upon his back. 


	3. don't make gumbo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alma makes an appearance. nice

“Oh, Vito you are – how you say – looking a bit pathetic. Like a little puppy who can’t wait to be given a little treat from his owner.” Vito stares at her. His face is blank. She continues anyway. “Except in this case, you are the puppy, and this random construction worker is the owner. You understand what I am saying, yes? You like this boy – wag your tail for him.”

At this, he breaks. “Oh, Alma, fuck off. I’ve met him like twice in the span of two weeks.”

She laughs, walking to the window to look to the warehouse below – back to him as she speaks again. “On top of him saving your life? Three times.”

“I’d hardly call it saving my fuckin’ life. Come on, he…”

She cuts him off, turning around whip-fast – wicked grin across her lips. “Oh no, no. Charlie told me all about this you see, Vito. Said you were crushed into the mud by your bayou boy – knight in shining armor.”

Vito mumbles under his breath. He’s gonna fuckin’ kick Charlie’s ass.

“And oh, Vito, I know you too well. I know what you are thinking. Charlie was simply conveying important details to me. When do you see him next?”

“Tomorrow,” he mumbles. Alma hears – just barely.

“Oh, that is wonderful then. Do not make him gumbo.”

“Hey, my gumbo is…”

She cuts him off again, shaking her head. “I will hear no more of this. Your gumbo is awful. If this is what you were planning, change it.”

Vito tells her he’s dropping by Benny’s at lunchtime. Alma seems to approve of this, further arguing that his gumbo is terrible, and he should be ashamed to even argue against her. He knows she’s right, and normally he’d push the matter. He finds he doesn’t want to, knows Marc would never come back if he cooked it. At this point it’s just an argument for Alma in their friendship.

“Now can we get back to talkin’ about the cargo on next week’s shipment?”

Alma nods her head. She knows she has won this encounter – always does. “I thought you’d never ask.

His mind is then preoccupied for the rest of the day by numbers and figures and plans to bring in money that Marcano will never find. Vito is nothing if not practical, knows full-well that to rely only on the rackets bestowed upon him by New Bordeaux’s patriarch is to accept certain death. It sounds dramatic in his head, but Marcano’s got no loyalty to Vito. Vito’s got nothin’ for him either. Nothing but disdain.

When he wakes the next day, he realizes belatedly that he’s excited – remembers, also belatedly, that Marc is droppin’ by. Hence the reason for his excitement. He swears, thinks to memorize – that he needs to tell the staff to behave.

Vito thinks back to the diner, Marc smilin’ at him over a plate. He wanted to tell Marc he wasn’t askin’ him to Benny’s as some sort of big-gay-crush thing, but he knew it’d probably sound like a lie. Contrary to popular belief, Vito wasn’t very good at that – tendin’ to cover up unfortunate truths with blanket statements it wouldn’t be worthwhile to inspect. He was a good liar, because he told the truth. Easy. And the truth was he couldn’t stop thinking about that curl on Marc’s forehead, couldn’t stop thinking about how each time he laughed at one of Vito’s awful jokes he wanted to kiss him.

When he was younger, he hadn’t been able to ascertain interested looks from the people around him. Joe would knock him on the shoulder, hit him on his head, sayin’: _how come you didn’t go talk to that broad, Vito? I think Mr. tall-dark-and-handsome over there wants a word with you, Scaletta._ Joe would laugh more at the second remark, lookin’ disappointed with him for the first. Prior to fighting in the war he’d been interested in makin’ a buck, and by the time he got back – figured that critical window where he learned how other people showed interest had passed. It wasn’t somethin’ he thought about often back then, or even now, but he knows there had been a learning curve and he’d just jumped on over it.

New Bordeaux made him lonely. New Bordeaux had forced him to learn what it meant when a man stared at the corner of his jaw – swallowin’ thickly, like Vito was syrup too reluctant to go down – especially when he first arrived, knew no one other than Sal fuckin’ Marcano – made him learn what it meant when a woman brushed her gloved hand against his shoulder, tilting his head up to face her like a hawk and he was about to be her prey. Vito knows he’s never been in love, has never been afforded the opportunity. 

He’s loved other people, felt a hole so big in his chest it almost brought him down into the fuckin’ earth: when his mom died in jail, when Frankie told him she never wanted to see him again, when he learned about Joe’s fuckin’ hands. Vito knows he’s had bad moments because of love; he isn’t tryin’ to increase that number. His baggage could already fill an airplane. He’s not in need of no more.

That doesn’t stop him from smilin’ when Marc walks into the restaurant that afternoon, not that Vito had been thinking about love. He doesn’t think about it much at all – choosin’ to take the approach that not thinking about something makes it a nonissue. It’s worked more often than not. And Vito is genuinely smiling for all of about one second, and even that’s more than some of his staff have seen, right up until he spots the splotchy darkness moving out from Marc’s eyes.

“Marc,” he greets him, and despite the black eye it’s also with a small smile. Marc seems a little shy and that’s – well that’s a little fuckin’ weird, unless he hasn’t been overthinkin’ the smiles in the hours he’s known him face-to-face: that Marc’s eyes on his mouth meant somethin’, that the question of Vito askin’ him out was more than jest. “What the fuck? You get in a fight before comin’ in here or what? Some kids try to take your lunch money?”

He winces like he’d forgotten about it. Maybe he had. _Nice one, Vito._ “No, just – y’know. Never let your friend take ya to a bar you ain’t never been to. Never know what kinda pole you’re gonna find meetin’ your face. For someone workin’ construction I’m pretty damn clumsy.”

Vito doesn’t believe it for a second considering the way Marc had pushed him to the ground, but he doesn’t push it – despite the pang of something in his chest, despite the feeling that someone did this to the person who ‘saved his life,’ who sat across from him for hours – making Vito’s chest pull tighter and tighter with each that passed. 

“I was gonna get you to eat some lunch but here you’ve got me wantin’ to play like I’m some fuckin’ nursemaid. Follow me.”

If he were Marc he’d be reluctant, but he isn’t, so Marc isn’t – just follows Vito out the side door and up the stairs to his apartment. There’s a plate by the sink and the apartment smells like the water with the window in the kitchen open; the _stench_ of New Bordeaux has grown on him over the years. Now it’s more of a grudging scent he welcomes, reminds him he’s in a different place.

Whether that’s good or bad, sometimes he doesn’t know.

“Nice place ya got here.”

And Vito laughs, turning to face Marc after he’s found what he was looking for in the kitchen. Ice pack: check.

“Thanks, it’s a real treat to live above this shithole. A real fuckin’ treat.”

Marc scowls; it’s playful, like he knows Vito has an attachment to the place. Maybe he’s just callin’ his bluff. “You invited me to come eat a place you don’t like? How am I supposed to feel ‘bout that?”

“Oh yeah,” Vito says, takin’ a step closer. He hadn’t meant to – not consciously, though he thought the space was unnecessary. It just sorta happened, one foot in front of the other till he was there. He moves the curl from Marc’s forehead before lifting the ice pack up. “You want it?”

Marc nods but doesn’t move to take it. Vito does what he thought he wouldn’t dare – touches Marc’s face, gentle pressure with the icepack, other hand holding up the curl.

“That okay?”

Marc nods again, let’s his face rest against Vito’s hand as it slides from his hair to his other cheek. They remain like that for a moment, Vito clearin’ his throat after another.

“You know, I can just make you somethin’ up here? I’m an okay cook, and we don’t gotta go back down.”

“I’d like that.” Marc smiles before continuing, Vito’s fingertips unconsciously trailing across Marc’s jaw as he lets his hand fall, the ice pack still in his grip. But Marc continues, and Vito feels it more than hears him as his heartbeat picks up. _Thump. Thump. Thump._ “And Vi-to, tell me if I’m interpretin’ things wrong, but I wanna kiss you. And I’m thinkin’ that you want me to kiss you, could even be y’know – why you’re not wantin’ to go back down...” Marc trails off.

Vito drops the icepack. He nods.

Vito hadn’t realized how significant the few inches he had on Marc were till Marc was on his toes, mouth meetin’ his like there was nothing else they could do. Vito isn’t a liar, and he doesn’t think he can lie about this – about the way he immediately wraps his arms around Marc’s lower back. He’s smaller, solid, muscle underneath the shirt. Vito thinks that he should’ve let Marc kiss him that first night – shouldn’t have bothered waiting till the second meeting, even. He laughs at Vito’s jokes, smiles at him like he’s beautiful, and kisses him like it matters.

Vito thinks then – that maybe it does. He doesn’t let that linger, because that’d be a bit too much a bit too soon.

It’s too short. It’s a few seconds that could’ve been hours, days. It was a few seconds. Marc leans into him. Vito doesn’t let go of his waist.

“Thanks,” Marc says – and it’s Vito’s turn to laugh. Marc looks up at him.

“Thanks? For what? Failin’ to ice your face – changing it from blue to red instead of icin’ it like I was supposed to?”

Marc gently punches his chest; Vito doesn’t want him to stop touching him – catches his hand, bringin’ it to his lips for just a moment to place a kiss to Marc’s palm. It’s intimate, he thinks. Marc swallows.

“You gonna kiss me again or what?”

“I’m thinkin’ or what,” but Vito kisses him anyways.

The pasta alla norma comes out about an hour later – because for a few moments they’d been too busy. Vito doesn’t entirely know why he’s so enamored with this person he’s met a grand total of four times, but he’s not trying to stop a gift that keeps giving.

They’re sitting at the small table in Vito’s kitchen. The sun is creeping lower in the sky; the beginning of winter time’ll do that to the remaining light. 

“My momma was so happy when I told her I was goin’ to hang out with someone – someone other than my two friends she knows about. She’s always jokin’, laughin’ that Bobby is gonna get me killed on account of he’s too Irish, and Miss Amy – well, you know Amy – she thinks that I don’t gotta be hangin’ around a woman related to ol’ Vinny. She’s a lot, my momma, but you’d like her.” Marc realizes what he’d said. “I only say that – on account of everyone likes her. Everyone that gives her a chance, that is. She’s a lot, but she’s got so much love in that old heart Vi-to, and… I’m rambling.”

“My ma’ was a lot too – had a very careful set of rules, set of ideals. She always told me hangin’ around with certain people was gonna get me into more trouble than I knew. Sometimes, I think I should’ve listened to her.”

Marc wants to ask where she is; where is Vito’s family, if he has them? He does.

“Ah,” Marc thinks he hears Vito’s voice catch. It could just be his imagination. “I don’t go braggin’ about it, but my mom died in Empire Bay. I was in prison when it happened – don’t really know why I’m telling you immediately, but better if you run away fuckin’ screaming now than later. Whole family died there, I guess. Mom, dad even if he was a gambling piece of shit. Sister is alive but I’m dead to her. Empire Bay spit me out as soon as it had the chance, huh?” It’s phrased as a question, but Marc knows he’s just telling a story he tries to avoid. He’s touched. He’s sad. He’s not afraid of Vito – not afraid of the ramblin’ either.

“What’d you go to prison for?” And that’s – that’s not what he’d meant to say, but it is what slips out of his _damn_ mouth. Way to ruin the fuckin’ mood, Marc. He comforts himself by acknowledgin’ that it’s hard to ruin the mood when dead family is being discussed, when it’s sadness that’s bleeding out from Vito’s chest. He’d caused that too.

“Selling fuckin’ ration stamps during the war if you’d believe it. Got ‘em for this _prick_ and – I dunno why I’m tellin’ you all this. It’s somethin’ I try not to think about, and I’m successful more times than others. But you got me talking.”

Marc pauses as Vito takes one of his last bites, waiting before he speaks again.

“Sorry to bring up somethin’ so… tough. My dad died when I was young, I didn’t really know him. On that I don’t get your pain, but I imagine it’s somethin’ fierce, Vi-to.”

Vito smiles at him, and Marc thinks he looks sad. He looks older, for a moment.

“Don’t be sorry. I’m glad you’re here.” Vito looks pained for a second. It’s like he thinks he’s said too much.

Marc smiles into his pasta.


End file.
